“Where do you think home might be?” he asked.
Nesryn braced her forearms on her knees. “I don’t know,” she admitted, twisting her head to look back at him. “Any ideas?”
You deserve to be happy, Aelin had said earlier that night. An apology and a shove out the door, he supposed.
He didn’t want to waste the calm moments.
So he reached for her hand, sliding closer as he interlaced their fingers. Nesryn stared at their hands for a heartbeat, then sat up. “Maybe once all this … once everything is over,” Chaol said hoarsely, “we could figure that out. Together.”
“Promise me,” she breathed, her mouth shaking. Indeed, that was silver lining her eyes, which she closed long enough to master herself. Nesryn Faliq, moved to tears. “Promise me,” she repeated, looking at their hands again, “that you will walk out of that castle tomorrow.”
He’d wondered why she’d brought him in here. The Sea God—and the God of Oaths.
He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.
Gold light rippled on the surface of the Sea God’s fountain, and Chaol offered up a silent prayer. “I promise.”
Rowan was in bed, casually testing his left shoulder with careful rotations. He’d pushed himself hard today while training, and soreness now throbbed in his muscles. Aelin was in her closet, preparing for bed—quiet, as she’d been all day and evening.
With two urns of hellfire now hidden a block away in an abandoned building, everyone should be tiptoeing around. One small accident, and they would be incinerated so thoroughly that no ash would remain.
But he’d made sure that wasn’t her concern. Tomorrow, he and Aedion would be the ones bearing the urns through the network of sewer tunnels and into the castle itself.
Aelin had tracked the Wyrdhounds to their secret entrance—the one that fed right to the clock tower—and now that she’d tricked Lorcan into killing them all for her, the way would be clear for him and Aedion to plant the vats, set the fuses, and use their Fae swiftness to get the hell out before the tower exploded.
Then Aelin … Aelin and the captain would play their part, the most dangerous of all. Especially since they hadn’t been able to get a message in to the palace beforehand.
And Rowan wouldn’t be there to help her.
He’d gone over the plan with her again and again. Things could go wrong so easily, and yet she hadn’t looked nervous as she downed her dinner. But he knew her well enough to see the storm brewing beneath the surface, to feel its charge even from across the room.
Rowan rotated his shoulder again, and soft footsteps sounded on the carpet. “I’ve been thinking,” Rowan started, and then forgot everything he was going to say as he bolted upright in bed.
Aelin leaned against the closet doorway, clad in a nightgown of gold.
Metallic gold—as he’d requested.
It could have been painted on her for how closely it hugged every curve and dip, for all that it concealed.
A living flame, that’s what she looked like. He didn’t know where to look, where he wanted to touch first.
“If I recall correctly,” she drawled, “someone said to remind him to prove me wrong about my hesitations. I think I had two options: words, or tongue and teeth.”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “Did I now.”
She took a step, and the full scent of her desire hit him like a brick to the face.
He was going to rip that nightgown to shreds.
He didn’t care how spectacular it looked; he wanted bare skin.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, taking another step, as fluid as molten metal. “Lysandra lent it to me.”
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. If he moved an inch, he’d be on her, would take her in his arms and begin learning just what made the Heir of Fire really burn.
But he got out of bed, risking all of one step, drinking down the sight of the long, bare legs; the curve of her breasts, peaked despite the balmy summer night; the bob of her throat as she swallowed.
“You said that things had changed—that we’d deal with it.” Her turn to dare another step. Another. “I’m not going to ask you for anything you’re not ready or willing to give.”
He froze as she stopped directly before him, tipping back her head to study his face as her scent twined around him, awakening him.
Gods, that scent. From the moment he’d bitten her neck in Wendlyn, the moment he’d tasted her blood and loathed the beckoning wildfire that crackled in it, he’d been unable to get it out of his system. “Aelin, you deserve better than this—than me.” He’d wanted to say it for a while now.
She didn’t so much as flinch. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t deserve. Don’t tell me about tomorrow, or the future, or any of it.”
He took her hand; her fingers were cold—shaking slightly. What do you want me to tell you, Fireheart?
She studied their joined hands, and the gold ring encircling her thumb. He squeezed her fingers gently. When she lifted her head, her eyes were blazing bright. “Tell me that we’ll get through tomorrow. Tell me that we’ll survive the war. Tell me—” She swallowed hard. “Tell me that even if I lead us all to ruin, we’ll burn in hell together.”
“We’re not going to hell, Aelin,” he said. “But wherever we go, we’ll go together.”
Her mouth wobbled slightly, and she released his hand only to brace her own on his chest. “Just once,” she said. “I want to kiss you just once.”
Every thought went out of his head. “That sounds like you’re expecting not to do it again.”
The flicker of fear in her eyes told him enough—told him that her behavior at dinner might have been mostly bravado to keep Aedion calm. “I know the odds.”
“You and I have always relished damning the odds.”
She tried and failed to smile. He leaned in, sliding a hand around her waist, the lace and silk smooth against his fingers, her body warm and firm beneath it, and whispered in her ear, “Even when we’re apart tomorrow, I’ll be with you every step of the way. And every step after—wherever that may be.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath, and he pulled back far enough for them to share breath. Her fingers shook as she brushed them against his mouth, and his control nearly shredded apart right there.
“What are you waiting for?” he said, the words near guttural.
“Bastard,” she murmured, and kissed him.
Her mouth was soft and warm, and he bit back a groan. His body went still—his entire world went still—at that whisper of a kiss, the answer to a question he’d asked for centuries. He realized he was staring only when she withdrew slightly. His fingers tightened at her waist.
“Again,” he breathed.
She slid out of his grip. “If we live through tomorrow, you’ll get the rest.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or roar. “Are you trying to bribe me into surviving?”
She smiled at last. And damn if it didn’t kill him, the quiet joy in her face.
They had walked out of darkness and pain and despair together. They were still walking out of it. So that smile … It struck him stupid every time he saw it and realized it was for him.
Rowan remained rooted to the center of the room as Aelin climbed into bed and blew out the candles. He stared at her through the darkness.
She said softly, “You make me want to live, Rowan. Not survive; not exist. Live.”
He didn’t have the words. Not when what she said hit him harder and deeper than any kiss.
So he climbed into bed and held her tightly all through the night.
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